Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  “Somebody meaning Jennifer Bile?” asks Naomi E. “Such an appropriate last name. Was that what you guys were arguing about in Creative Writing?”

  I nod. “Yep. So I told her she shouldn’t say that and she was kind of coming at me, saying that it was a Native American term and how I didn’t know what I was talking about, and I know she’s wrong, but . . . Katherine made us stop talking. I want to go back tomorrow and crush her.”

  “No need to talk about ‘crushing’ anyone,” says Momma gently.

  “It’s Jennifer Bile, though,” says Tom, and I give him a low five that Momma pretends she doesn’t see.

  “Momma, she said MONA LISA was her spirit animal,” I say.

  “That ridiculous appropriator, nonsinging wannabe—” starts Momma.

  “Do what you want with meeeee, you got all I neeeeeeed,” sings Brianna. “That’s my favorite song!”

  “That is NOT your favorite song,” says Momma. “We do not sing Mona Lisa songs in this house.”

  “Hello! Back to spirit animal?” I say. “I remember they were talking about it on that podcast we listened to a couple of weeks ago, but I couldn’t remember everything, and I didn’t want to mess up. And you’re a librarian . . .”

  “Which means you’re a superhero!” yells Brianna.

  Momma grins. “Primary sources are my superpower!” she says, and I only groan a little. “But, honey, you’re right, it’s not cool. I hear it so much too; I see it on shirts, posters. . . . It was even a question in our staff team-building activities: ‘Who is your spirit animal?’ A group of us had to have a conversation with the facilitator about that. Usually, what people think they’re referring to has specific sacred and cultural meaning to different Indigenous groups. That podcast—it was ‘Soulquake,’ by the way, if she wants to know—referenced the Ojibwe Nation. Oh! That reminds me—I just got a copy of a new young adult novel by an Ojibwe author—Apple in the Middle by Dawn Quigley. My school librarian book club is reading books for the next high school summer reading list. Can’t wait to dig in!” Momma rubs her hands together like she’s thinking about a giant slice of cake. “Anyway, there’s not really any one ‘Native American’ anything, but people love to talk a lot of ‘mystical universal Indian’ nonsense.”

  “Yep, I’ve heard a lot of ‘ancient Native American’ sayings,” says Tom. “And they’re just not.”

  “Mmmhmm, like those vague ‘African proverbs,’” says Momma, shaking her head. “Words and language matter. Would you use the term gypped? Indian giver? People say ‘that’s ghetto’ to mean something negative. Think about ‘off the rez.’ What does that really mean?”

  “Aaaand heere we go . . . ,” I start. But I’m glad. This feels like home.

  “Anyway,” says Momma. “At best, she’s misguided.” Momma taps her fork. “If she wants to know more about the Ojibwe, tell your friend to read some Louise Erdrich, or to do some research on Winona LaDuke’s work. Does she like sports? She can check out Grace White. You can too.”

  “I don’t know if she really wants to know more about anything,” I say. Naomi E. nods. “And she’s not my friend. Plus she got mad at me for calling her out. Then I got in trouble for talking.”

  “Trouble?” says Momma, raising her eyebrows.

  “I mean . . . Never mind, it’s fine,” I say. “I got this.”

  “But,” starts Naomi E. When we look at her, she scoops up some potatoes. “Never mind.” But what? I wonder.

  “Ojibwe like Hungry Johnny?” asks Brianna. “I like to EAT EAT EAT! When are you going to read that to me again?”

  That’s one that I don’t mind reading over and over. We both relate to Johnny having to respect the elders before he can get to his own food, like how it is at Christmas dinner.

  We spend the rest of dinner playing Guess the Capital, and Bri surprises us all with Yaoundé and Budapest. She might be Geography Bowl material one day.

  We use the caramel sauce that I made for last Saturday’s waffles on top of our ice cream, and Naomi E. whips out a surprise box of cookies from Morningstar, which I’ve added to my list of great bakeries, and not just because they make amazing chocolate rugelach. She’s my sister now; it’s the right thing to do.

  “How do you get all of your outfits planned out like that?” says Naomi E. as we pack up our backpacks for the morning. “I bet you already know what you’re going to do for Wacky Hat/Hair Day.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about making a cake hat, but I don’t know if that will be too weird. Ugh, what do you think Jen will do?” I ask. “Probably something over the top and rude.”

  Naomi E. is silent for a minute as she puts her colored pencils back into her Gudetama case. “Not that I’m making excuses for Vomitus Maximus, but you weren’t even one hundred percent sure about spirit animal. How was she supposed to know? And she was kind of saying it in a good way, right?”

  “Yeah, but when someone tells you something’s offensive, I think you should at least consider that before you get all defensive. You should have heard her.”

  “Ugh, no, I shouldn’t have,” says Naomi E. “But, um, I worry sometimes, you know,” she says slowly. “About saying the wrong thing too. Not Upchuck-iffer wrong, but . . . we didn’t talk about a lot of this stuff at my old school. Or in my old house. I don’t want you to get mad at me.”

  “‘Upchuck-iffer’—nice one,” I say. She takes a little bow. “Actually, I kind of had that impression, you know, that you didn’t talk about race very much before.”

  “I mean, those workshops and stuff, I never had to talk about being white before. It’s kind of . . . weird. And uncomfortable. I like being comfortable.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re pretty used to that,” I say.

  She frowns. “You sound like it’s a bad thing. I didn’t say that stuff; we’re talking about Spewiffer.”

  “I know, I’m not saying that you did; it’s just . . . I don’t think you should worry as much about being told you’re wrong like it’s worse than actually being wrong.”

  We zip up our backpacks at the same time.

  “I can’t believe she likes Mona Lisa,” says Naomi E. after a while. “It figures.”

  “Seriously!” I clear my throat. “But that remix of ‘Snack You Up’ is kinda hot.”

  “I’m glad you said it,” says Naomi E. “Because, um . . . yeah. That’s kind of my song.”

  We both smile, but we get ready for bed without talking anymore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Naomi E.

  I lie in bed a long time thinking about what Naomi Marie said: I don’t think you should worry as much about being told you’re wrong like it’s worse than actually being wrong. Those words sting in that way that I recognize (and wish I didn’t). It happens when I hear something I wish wasn’t true but that I kind of know is. It’s something I actually feel, like a sore bruise that keeps getting poked.

  I wish I could tell her how hard I’m trying to not let her down. I know we both have a lot of change to deal with, and I wonder if the changes she’s had to make are easier or if it only looks that way because she always seems so sure of herself. Always.

  That’s sort of the perfect opposite of how I feel these days—sure of myself.

  I don’t know how late I fall asleep, but I know it’s very late and that the only thing that gets me out of bed is knowing it’s almost the weekend. When I’m tired like this, it feels like I’m only half there and not even a quarter-paying-attention.

  But it would be impossible to miss this: in the hallway before third period, I notice Jen doing what looks like some nasty whispering to Ava, and I wonder if it’s about Naomi Marie, who’s getting something out of her nearby locker. I want to charge over and tell Jen and Ava to shut up, which is not exactly proper school behavior, but when I’m tired like this, I have about an eighth of the good judgment I usually have. I walk close and try to hear what she’s saying, but they both look at me with big eyes that mean What are YOU looki
ng at? And I don’t hear anything. I can imagine, though. If I really did have a superpower, maybe I’d have had the courage to say something that covered everything at once—that Jen was so wrong and that I have Naomi Marie’s back.

  After school, Naomi Marie and Brianna go straight to their dad’s, and when I get home, I find Dad outside, huffing and puffing. “I’ve been trying to haul this around back,” he says, pointing at the not-even-close-to-as-good-as-a-garden planter where I grew a tomato plant this summer.

  “I’ll help,” I say. “Let me put my backpack inside.”

  I do, and I look around the kitchen for something delicious but fail to find it. I take a banana instead and go sit on the front steps while I eat it.

  “Moving it will be easy because of this,” he says, showing me this little . . . I have no idea what it’s called, but it has wheels. “If we can lift the planter onto it, we should be good to go.”

  I nod. Still eating. The plant’s dead, and it wasn’t that great when it was alive either. We got maybe five tomatoes. I’ve been trying to look forward to planting my garden for next summer, but it feels so far away—it’s hard to even imagine. But then I remember: spring! And wait, even better, I don’t have to wait! I never planted any spring-blooming plants in my old garden because I never thought I was a flower person. But I could start now. Spring bulbs get planted in the fall. And in the winter, when that first crocus shows through, it can be a happy reminder that the cold is almost over.

  “Dad! Can we get bulbs, like to grow tulips and daffodils and crocuses?”

  He shrugs and says, “I don’t see why not. It would be a nice thing we can all do together—choose what plants, buy the bulbs, dig the holes. We’ll have to get started soon, though. I think you have to do it in early fall maybe? Or just fall?”

  My mouth’s open, but words aren’t coming out. Because my garden has been my place for me to be alone. But now it’s going to be for everyone. Another Yes, AND. I once would have been upset about this. Instead, I’m trying to be happy. We’ll see.

  “Ready?” Dad asks.

  The planter is so heavy. And we are so uncoordinated. The one time we lift it high enough, the thing with wheels—Dad is calling it Dolly (I have no idea why he’d give it a name like that)—squirts away, and we end up putting the planter back down, for a second, on his foot. There’s a reason Mom used to hire a handyman for around-the-house jobs that needed doing.

  Luckily, he finds our inability to do even a simple thing as funny as I do, and we’re laughing as we lift and miss Dolly again. “Should we wait until . . . umm . . . Valerie or Naomi Marie is here?” I ask. More hands, better coordination, maybe?

  “We’ve got this,” he says. And eventually, he’s right. Once it’s on Dolly, we roll her to the back of the house. Getting the big planter off Dolly is a lot easier than getting it on. Dad pulls out this plastic tarp thing, and we wrap the planter and shove it against the house.

  “That looks ugly. I’ll be hearing about it from Valerie,” he says.

  “Do you ever worry about saying the wrong thing to Valerie?” I ask.

  He laughs and says, “Why would I worry about that? I have plenty of experience with saying the wrong thing with your mom.” He looks at me. “Not funny?”

  I shake my head. “I mean about her being black and us not . . .”

  “Being black?” Dad asks, smiling.

  I shrug. “It’s hard for me to talk about.”

  “I get that,” he says. “You’re not used to talking about it, and that’s on me. On me and your mom, really. But didn’t we all start to work on that at the workshops we attended and . . . What?”

  My hand is up, like a stop sign. “I want to talk to you about this, but I don’t want you to assume I need more workshops. Can we talk without automatic workshop sign-ups?” He nods. “And can we go inside now?”

  We do, and we sprawl out on the couches in the living room. I can’t remember another afternoon when it’s been just the two of us here, the way it used to be for so long.

  “There’s a lot I don’t know, but I feel like there’s always going to be. Things that just seem annoying or strange to me seem . . . different to Naomi Marie. Like remember I told you about when . . . umm . . . Valerie picked us up from Lisa Trotter’s birthday party and Lisa Trotter’s mother acted weird? I thought it was because we didn’t show up at the party at the same time and also we have the same name! How was Lisa Trotter’s mother supposed to know Valerie was picking me up, that Naomi Marie is my sister? She acted like it was definitely because she was black, and I really don’t know if that was true.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Dad says, and he goes into the kitchen. I hear him open the cabinet where Valerie’s hiding the Halloween candy. He walks back in and drops a fun-size package of M&M’s on my stomach.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Maybe the way to start to do better is to ask questions,” he says.

  “Ask who?”

  “Valerie? Maybe Naomi Marie.”

  “That would annoy Naomi Marie. Or make her mad. Or offended. She said something to me last night about how I’m too worried about being told I’m wrong, and that I should be worried about being wrong. My questions would just show her how wrong I am all the time, how little I know.”

  Dad goes back to the cabinet. I think we’re going to need to buy a whole new bag of candy before Halloween. This time he drops a mini Twix on me. Mmm.

  “Your questions will show you’re trying. And as you get answers, you’ll hear more stories and be more informed. Maybe you’ll seek out more stories too, and become more aware of the privilege you and I have and the work we all need to do together for change.”

  It would be nice if there was just one part of my life that wasn’t about working at change.

  Dad falls asleep. I go into Brianna’s room. When Annie or I need cheering up, we sort of picture-read picture books to each other, ignoring the words and making up a story. Because picture books are the comfort food of reading.

  But this is different. I’m here to read new-to-me books, to listen to stories Naomi Marie and Brianna grew up with. I plan to sort through and pick the ones that have black kids on the cover, but it turns out all the ones I reach for do.

  I pull out Seeds of Change, Ellington Was Not a Street, The Book Itch, Josephine: The Dazzling Life of Josephine Baker. I grab another thick handful and take all the books into my room.

  New-to-me stories.

  It’s a start.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Naomi Marie

  Carla puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles LOUD. The auditorium immediately gets quiet, which is pretty amazing, because ten seconds ago Aaron was yelling “DUDE!” over and over for no reason, Gruber was begging everyone in our Advisory to dare him to skateboard down the auditorium aisle, and Nina Bryant and her crew were doing the choreography for the “It’s Over (And Over Again)” video.

  Gigi whispers, “Thank you, Carla,” and we give each other knowing looks because we both know it’s a crime to do Adedayo like that. Especially when it’s a duet with Airi; that song almost makes me cry every time I hear it because it’s so beautiful. Me and Xio are going to make a video of us singing it next time we’re at my dad’s.

  “Thanks, Chisholm,” says Carla calmly as Assistant Principal Mark takes Gruber’s skateboard away again. She introduces Amina and Ellison, who read the birthdays and announcements. Then Lulu from the Feminist Club comes up and flips her hair like it’s on the US gymnastics team. She asks why no one is joining Feminist Club, even though the thing is that whenever anyone tries to ask her about joining, she says she’s adding names to the wait list. Then we watch a short film made by the Old-School Video Games Club, which I might join.

  Carla comes to take back the mic. “Oh, and the Wacky Hat/Hair Day parade will be here before you know it. Let’s see how creative the Chisholm family can be!”

  Cheers and whooping; Carla stands and looks at us until we’re total
ly quiet again. It doesn’t take long.

  “I encourage each of you to remind your parents to actually read my weekly letters that offer MYRIAD suggestions on how all of us in our community can advocate for our rights, including for fully funded school libraries.”

  “Got that right!” yells Daisuke from the back. I know he’s not the shushing kind of librarian, which I’ve never actually ever met in real life, but I didn’t know he was the yelling-from-the-back-of-the-auditorium kind either! “Full-time school librarians are a right, not a privilege!” He gets lots of whoops, and I stand up and clap hard.

  When I sit back down, Jennifer loud-whispers, “She is such a nerd, it’s, like, ridiculous.” I keep staring straight ahead, and Gigi squeezes my hand.

  All of a sudden, a bunch of high schoolers stands up and starts chanting.

  “No dirt with dirty money!” they chant over and over.

  It’s not that catchy.

  Carla holds up her hand, but it doesn’t work this time. More kids start chanting too, and I want to join in, even though I’m not sure if I should. Most of the teachers are shushing them, but a few are just sitting there.

  “Is this about those flyers?” yells Gigi, trying to be heard over the crowd. “Why do they hate that Cranstock guy so much?”

  “I think he has something to do with standardized tests or something,” I say. “Momma—my mom doesn’t really like him either.”

  I’ve been thinking that it was a good thing that some rich guy wants to give money to our school. But as I look around at the chaos in the auditorium, I wonder. I remember how Momma talked to Ms. Starr about “strings attached.” I guess it’s complicated. Like everything else.

  Sun-dried tomatoes at the salad bar. Yuck. I’m glad I brought dessert from home, at least. Well, from Shelly Ann’s.

  “Not a fan?” says the boy who’s serving as he watches me pick them out and put them on the side of my tray.

  I shake my head. “They’re just weird. They look like they’re gonna be sweet like fruit leather, but they turn out to be salty and way more leathery.”